We all need new challenges
That's what keeps us going
Photo by Adrian Hernandez on Unsplash
I have recently taken up golf. Let me state here and now, this is not something I ever thought I would do. I have to confess to having been very scathing about the game in the past, seeing it as a boring, middle class pastime, the sole preserve of the “gin and Jag brigade.” Why would anyone want to spend their days hitting a small ball around a manicured patch of green, I wondered, and agreed wholeheartedly with the oft used quote “Golf is a good walk spoiled.” I was much happier to stride out into the countryside, with or without a dog and my binoculars, to see what was going on around me in nature. But my husband plays, as do most of his friends. (I can confirm that a few of them drink gin but none have a Jaguar). When they all get together, there is usually a night out for dinner followed by a game of golf for everyone the next morning. So, it really became a case of “If you can’t beat them join them!”
This is a big departure for me as I’m not a sporty person by nature: since playing hockey and basketball at school, I have never involved myself in any other kind of game beyond cards! I did try tennis once, thinking it looked relatively easy. I quickly learned it isn’t and, like anything else, if one is going to master the skill, it requires practice, practice, practice and a lot of patience, something I have never been blessed with. The tennis went the same way as learning the acoustic guitar, sewing and cribbage: unable to become any good at them quickly, I got bored and gave up.
I have, however, always been someone who likes a new challenge and occasionally I find something I stick at. I began having swimming lessons ten years ago when I grew tired of watching my twin daughters swim like fish, while I would not go out of my depth or even put my face in the water. As a child, I had been made to jump off the side of the corporation baths during a school swimming lesson and was for evermore terrified of the water. The only stroke I could do was a sort of rudimentary breast-stroke and then only as long as I stayed in the shallow end where I could put my feet on the bottom.
The swimming teacher assured me it wasn’t too late to learn and set about slowly building my confidence and showing me the mechanics of front crawl. A nose-clip helped quell the rising panic I felt about getting the breathing right and I could make about half a length before stopping and grabbing onto the side. We persevered. Having other beginners in the class helped. I didn’t feel I was the only idiot. I grew more confident and soon could swim several lengths of front crawl and back stroke. I learned to jump in off the side, a huge barrier to overcome, and we even progressed to trying tumble-turns.
One week the teacher announced we were going to do butterfly and I laughed disparagingly, “What is the point?” I asked “it looks so ungainly, difficult and hard work”. But she was not to be deterred and we began. As I surfaced, after feeling ridiculous undulating my body like a dolphin and forcing my arms round through the water and over my head, she announced, “Susy, you’re a natural at butterfly, it’s your best stroke!” That was a slight exaggeration, but none-the-less I am now prepared to swim butterfly for a couple of lengths when required and am proud to have achieved something new I never thought I could.
I’m still going to that weekly class although I have progressed beyond beginners and am now in the “Alpha Squad” because one Tuesday night about four years ago, I swam 88 lengths of the pool, the equivalent of a mile! The end of the class had come and most people had completed the distance and were already in the changing rooms. I was still diligently ploughing up and down the pool with our two lovely teachers standing on the side cheering me on. They refused to leave until I had finished and when I finally puffed my way to the end for the final time, they broke into applause and shouts of “Well done!” and “A brilliant achievement!”. I felt like I was five years old again, going home proudly with my badge to testify I had made the grade!
Sadly, I wasn’t quite so good at horsemanship. About 15 years ago, when I was in my fifties, I took up horse riding. Largely prompted by watching one of my young daughters ride at our local stables in rural Hampshire, where we lived at the time, I decided it looked fun and thought I’d have a go. But first, I needed to get over my fear of horses. Much as I thought they were beautiful, I had always been very wary of these large, unpredictable creatures: I even found my little sister’s pony a bit frightening when she used to bring it to the front gate of our 1930s semi when we were teenagers. But as I watched the riding school ponies plod round and round the sand school, I could see that this was a controlled environment with good teachers and besides, if all the little infants I watched could do this, surely, so could I.
Photo by Philippe Oursel on Unsplash
I began to take lessons and to learn the hand and leg movements that told a horse when one wanted it to stop, speed up or rise to go over a jump. My confidence grew a little and I was thrilled to be acquiring a new skill and overcoming some of my reservations about horses. I progressed to going out for a hack now and again and, although still very nervous when we moved beyond trotting, I discovered the joy of seeing the countryside around me from an entirely different perspective. Being high up on horseback gave me views that I never got when walking and the routes we took across fields, along high ridges and through picturesque villages introduced me to parts of the Hampshire countryside I didn’t know existed. I loved it.
One summer’s evening, I joined a group of riders on an organised ride to one of the local hostelries, where, the plan was, we would all dismount, enjoy a quick drink together in the pub garden and then journey back. There were about 10 riders of varying ability, each matched to their horse and allocated a spot in the line-up to make sure everyone was close to a more experienced rider and also to separate the horses that were troublesome from one another. Despite this, the pony in front of me was a bit skittish and kept trying to nip the rump of the preceding one. When we had to go into single file along narrow country lanes there was a lot of jostling in the ranks and I began to get nervous. My horse will of course have sensed this and was just waiting for the moment when it could catch me out.
We arrived at a gate leading into a field. We milled around in a group while the leader swung the gate back and invited us through. My flighty mount, with no warning whatsoever, or certainly not that its amateur rider could discern, took off across the field at speed. I was terrified. I had only ever progressed from trot to canter once or twice and had certainly never gone any faster. This was a full-on gallop. “Lie low and hang on!” shouted the ride leader as I disappeared into the distance. I lay as flat as I could along the horse’s back, my hands desperately grasping its mane along with the reins, as one foot slipped out of the stirrup and the thought came to me about the time my sister had fallen off her pony and dislocated her elbow. I cannot imagine how much adrenaline was coursing through my body as I stifled a scream and the ground went whizzing past.
Then suddenly, almost as quickly as it had charged off, my mount began to slow and gradually stopped next to a patch of scrub where it started to calmly graze. Dazed and confused, and wondering if all my body parts were still intact, I tried to calm my hammering heart. I couldn’t dismount because my legs were so shaky. The ride leader caught up with me and, after checking I was OK, congratulated me for staying on. “Believe me”, I countered, “it was luck rather than judgment!”. But it broke me. I decided it was completely foolhardy to be indulging in something so potentially dangerous at my age. Only weeks later, a friend with many, many years of equine experience, was in a riding accident and ended up with a broken jaw. So I never became a really proficient rider, but at least I tried. I met a new challenge head-on to the best of my ability and I’m glad I gave it a go.
I don’t expect the same element of danger with golf, although when someone shouts “Fore-right!” and everyone goes into brace position, I have to admit to a certain degree of nervousness. Like everything else I’ve ever tried, golf looks easy but isn’t, and I was astonished to learn that even golf pros have lessons to keep them at a top standard. I have had many lessons plus played quite a few games and just when I feel I’m making progress, I have a bad day and feel like giving up. Then people I consider to be really good players tell me they too have times when their play is not so good, and I wonder if I will ever master this silly game. But I like the challenge and the fact that, again, I am learning something new. I’ve recently discovered a ladies’ only class on a Saturday morning where a really friendly group of women, all of a similar age and ability to me, have coffee and a chat afterwards. Now that bit I can do!
Do you set yourself new challenges? I would love to hear about them. If there is something you’d like to tell me, please leave a comment and I’ll respond
If you enjoyed my Home Truth and think others will too, you can share it by clicking here
I hope you continue with your golf, I played many years ago, but had to give up due to back injuries. I've recently started playing again, albeit not as often as before and in a style adapted to get around my back constraints, but I'm loving being out on the course again. Golf can be physically challenging for some, but mentally, it is challenging for everyone who plays and I kind of like that. However challenging it is for you, it can be very enjoyable too! Good luck🏌🏻♀️⛳️ 🏌🏻
Oh wow we are so similar about horses . My family rode : my mother , her cousins . It was expected that I should . But unlike Mummy growing up in rural Devon with her cousins’ ponies: hunting with the fox blood smeared across her face as right of passage ; and gym kanas galore and bareback frolicks , we were in suburban Bristol. Hence my experience was riding lessons which were going well with a patient teenager until she left for uni. As a nervous ten year old I was sent to a large riding school and trailed around the sand school . I was always scared until firmly behind the fence. Then on guide camp , age 15 , we trekked on a main road and a lorry came around the roundabout and that was enough to spook my pony ( the largest on account of my height ) and it reared up. I was terrified and vowed never to ride again. And I haven’t . My daughter duly inherited the horse gene from a her grandmother ( who sadly she didn’t meet ) . From Age 3 she rode with our neighbour and at 10 we were offered a loan pony , then we bought her a horse which she had until uni. Of course I could not help except with bills and she did it all herself - suffice to say we didn’t do the pony club thing , but she had all the fun of her own horse. My mother would have been in her element had she been alive to see. And of course Bethan graduated last year with a 1st in Equine Sciene from Cirencester. She now still rides out for others and her boyfriend is a farrier whose family train horses . I can admire from afar , but that’s as far as I go with horses !